Quick Study
by brightnightwriter
Summary: Fresh off a failed start as a SHIELD agent Adelaide Fleming is determined not to botch up her second chance at a SHIELD career, even if she's been banished to the depths of the ever-boring desk-department. Less boring is meeting Pietro Maximoff, and difficult is preventing him from meddling with her career. If only he wasn't so damn attractive.
1. Chapter 1: Adelaide Fleming

**I: Adelaide Fleming**

If pressed to answer, Adelaide Fleming would tell you that being a SHIELD agent wasn't all that it was cracked up to be. It certainly wasn't what she had expected for herself; and even after getting used to the idea, she'd thought that at this point in her career, she'd be a little further along.

Adelaide Fleming had always, after all, succeeded in all she tried. It wasn't so much so that she was the type that picked things up easily, but rather her resolve to never quit until she was satisfied with her success. Her mother had always expected much from her, as she had with all her children. All Fleming children had gone on to do great things. The Fleming matriarch was always proud to tell anyone who would listen that she had churned out a politician, a lawyer, a doctor, a decorated marine, and even a respected playwright.

And she'd had no doubts that her youngest daughter would go on to achieve great things. From a young age Adelaide had impressed her teachers with her thirst for knowledge. She was always hard pressed to find answers, and her curiosity was her drive. Children often find themselves at odds with their parents for forcing past times upon them, but Adelaide was always ready to try something knew. Most importantly, Adelaide was never quite satisfied with a simply scratching the surface of a subject.

When her mother had wanted her to learn French, Adelaide had done some and more. She had studied French history, read French literature, courted French music, and learned French mannerisms. When her mother wanted her to learn how to ride horses, she had learned everything from how to help a mare give birth to how the saddle and tack were made and properly cared for. Her mother had expressed regret that her generation knew nothing of classical music, and so Adelaide had learned how to play the piano and violin, and how each instrument functioned and was cared for.

Yet unlike her older siblings, it quickly became clear that Adelaide had no personal ambition of her own. Adelaide wanted only to continue learning, anything and everything, something that worried her mother. Mrs. Fleming's children had all exhibited their callings at a very early age and yet, if asked, Adelaide simply answered that she enjoyed learning and might spend all her life doing so.

Mrs. Fleming decided that it might be best to marry her daughter into prestige, if she could not create her own. This was not an unfamiliar practice to Mrs. Fleming, who had orchestrated the marriage of her oldest son, which was still quite well and respectable. She thought that Adelaide would be easy; though not ambitious to her standards, Mrs. Fleming approved of Adelaide's looks. She found no guilt in admitting that her youngest was also the most the prettiest of her three daughters, and so she believed a suitable match would be easily found.

It was not so. Adelaide proved to be rather headstrong when it came to the opposite sex. She was honest in a sense her mother found rude, and excused her actions on account of being 'bored'. Adelaide had no interest in the boys her mother introduced her to, and her would-be suitors sensed this easily. And so despite how well Adelaide proved to be in her classes and extracurricular activities, Mrs. Fleming worried for her daughter's future.

Mrs. Fleming was not appeased until her youngest daughter received her college acceptance letters and was debating between Yale and Harvard. There, Mrs. Fleming was sure, Adelaide would meet her perfect and appropriate match. This too was not so.

Adelaide had not thought twice when, after accepting early admission to Harvard University, she had been contacted by her new college and invited for a freshman orientation. It was not until she had been led to an old office and met an unsmiling man who told her that a private organization had taken an interest in her potential that she realized the invitation had been false.

That had been the first time she had ever heard of SHIELD, and it had been her insatiable curiosity that had led her to accept the offer given her. She hadn't been told exactly what SHIELD was—that would come later, if she passed her exams and tests and training. And so while her family believed her to be a journalism major at Harvard University, Adelaide, not yet eighteen, was taking a gamble on her education for an organization that technically didn't exist.

Her gamble paid off. Her dedication to fulfilling her curiosity was her greatest asset, and she quickly rose amongst the ranks of trainees as one of the best. Her life became dedicated to drills, to learning combat training, to learning world politics, and everything she could about the elusive SHIELD. She was expected to do well once she became an agent, and she graduated training with honors. There was one thing that impressed some of her superiors and concerned few others: her loyalty. Adelaide had been taught all her life to follow a direction once given by her mother, a habit that carried itself over into her interaction with her superiors. If told to jump, she would ask how high.

It was this keenness to trust and follow orders that ruined Adelaide.

Nineteen years old and fresh out of training, Adelaide was given a Level Three Clearance and stationed at SHEILD Washington DC HQ. Her family believed she was writing for a mediocre political magazine (one owned by SHIELD and the cover for hundreds of agents), and Adelaide was happy. Her ambition was still rather lax, her only hope to fulfill her desk career quickly so that she could become a field agent.

Her CO had assured her that if she continued on the path that she was on, field work would come quickly. She hadn't expected that to come in the form of HYDRA revealing itself within SHIELD, and she hadn't expected to make such a grave mistake. Adelaide had trusted her CO blindly, and when he had told her to shoot at another commanding officer because he was HYDRA, she had not thought twice. She had followed orders.

It quickly became apparent then that her CO was _not_ on the side of SHIELD, and by then it was too late, and he had escaped. Kevlar had proved to be a blessing in literal disguise, and relief had swelled in her when Adelaide realized she had _not_ murdered a SHIELD CO on behalf of HYDRA. Yet when all was said and done, Command wasn't quite thrilled with her, and they viewed her blind trust as a weakness rather than a respectable trait in an agent.

There went her rise through the ranks, and there went her dream of being a field agent. She was offered either an early dismissal from SHIELD, or a year on probation with cut pay as she was reviewed. Repulsed by the idea of quitting, and feeling a fiery hatred towards HYDRA, Adelaide stayed, vowing to prove herself. That had been a year ago, and though her probationary period had been just recently lifted, her Level Three Clearance had been revoked and substituted with a Level Two Clearance.

Given the unfortunate start to her SHIELD career, the tumultuous future speeding towards her was something that Adelaide never saw coming.


	2. Chapter 2: Hades The Filing Department

Special thanks to Guest reviewer for being my first reviewer on this story! I appreciated it a lot, and this ones for you.

* * *

 **II. Hades, or the File Department of SHIELD**

* * *

Adelaide isn't quite sure what's more irritating: the stuffy room or the careful scrutiny of her being that the hawkish, stuffy man before her is currently undertaking. She wonders if he fears his glasses falling off his nose—it's so high up in the air she swears she can see a few bats in the cave—but then he gives her a brisk nod, and they stay put, and she decides he's just a pompous ass.

"So," he says, voice dripping with derision. "You're the kid that shot Belgrade?"

She winces, and he smirks, knowing she's caught. Meekly, Adelaide nods her head. There isn't much to say, really. Her epic fail is sort of a cautionary tale amongst recruits now. _Oh, you know, Adelaide Fleming? Shot_ the _David Belgrade twice_ _because her HYDRA CO said so_.

"I usually go by Fleming," she says. She's an agent, dammit, and she's not about to let some over-glorified librarian of an agent dressed like a goddamned hobbit bully her.

"Fleming," he repeats. "Charming name," Adelaide scowls, but he has already turned away to his desk and grabbed a tall box from its edge.

"Files. File them. I'm sure a big shot, ex-Level Three Clearance agent like yourself can figure out how that's done," he continues. Adelaide's eyes flash down to the bronze plaque with his name at the center edge of his desk, and she's just about to tell Mr. Alan Bloomberg were he can shove those files. But then she remembers it's her first day on the job, and so she puts on her most obnoxiously dazzling smile.

"I'll try my very best, sir," she says, holding her arms out for the box. Alan's eyes narrow slightly, and he shoves the box into her arms.

"Your desk is in the back," he tells her, and she's glad to be out of his gaze so that she can roll her eyes.

Her new work place is supposed to be nicknamed 'The Basement'; it's one of the lowest levels, given the fact that many of the files are important and this way in case of a break in, they can't simply be scooped out by intruders. Adelaide quickly finds out that SHIELD personnel refer to it as Hell or Hades, and Alan as a Harpy. She wants to giggle the first time she hears that, but then she remembers that she is one of the four unlucky people working with him, and her mirth fades.

Her first day on the job is not pleasant; the Basement is windowless, and there are no computers, only an emergency landline that connects to the upstairs. All of their work is handwritten, and the cramp that forms in her hand after transposing files she figures are useless if she's being allowed to read them mocks her.

"You could have been a field agent by now," she mutters to herself. It's her fourth week in the basement, and instead of getting used to the abysmal place, so far it's only gotten worse. "But no. You had to go and shoot David fucking Belgrade,"

David Belgrade. The name causes her to turn a little green each time it's mentioned, which is rather often around new recruits. He's something of a hero to many of them, his missions somewhat legendary. He's only ten years their senior, but most recruits view him as some sort of god because he looks like he might have been slipped half a dose of super soldier serum.

Hades is dark and depressing. For a new structure, it's rather musty, and she's willing to bet her ass that it's all preexisting foundation, rather than new. She's very envious of every agent that gets to work above; the New York headquarters is _bangin'_ , all thanks to Tony Stark, who designed and funded half the thing.

"But this cool. This is great. You've got this. Sure, you've started talking to yourself, but soon you'll be out of here and up in the real world," She's careful not to let her pep talk echo in the room, though she's certain she's caught Jared Mick mumble a few to himself. She leans back in her chair (she's had to add a pillow to keep her ass from flattening, and it's not even a cool, spinning chair) she gazes up at the tall industrial shelves, not for the first time mapping out a perfect route to climb up. There's no reason _why_ she wants to do it, just that it seems like fun.

Hell, falling down and breaking her neck sounds more exciting than transposing and filing.

There are days—her bad, bad days—that she wants to argue that what she did could have happened to anyone, that all she'd been doing was following orders, that _how could anyone fault her that_? But then she always remembers that her good intentions meant jack squat when faced with the fact that her CO had been HYDRA and he'd made away with precious intel.

Because despite it all, Adelaide knows she's lucky. SHIELD could have (perhaps should have) kicked her ass to the curb. But they'd given her a second chance, and she knows not to fuck it up this time. It's what stops her from messing around on the job; more than once she's been tempted to slip a flask of vodka into her bag and take a sip each time Alan is an ass. Getting her ass kicked out for being caught at security with a flask of vodka doesn't appeal to her, so she forgets about it. Besides, she can't stand to imagine the look of glee that would light up the Harpy's face.

"Jared Mick you imbecile—how long have you been using red pen for?" at Alan's exclamation, Adelaide looks up and cranes her neck past a shelf unit to find a red-faced Alan standing over Mick's desk. Mick is very obviously frustrated.

"You _said_ to use any pen on the desk. The red pen was on the desk!" exclaims Mick.

"Of any of the files you saw, were any in red ink? That's right, they weren't. They were all in blue or black ink. Is it that damn difficult to copy out what's already been written in the same damn ink color?" asks Alan. Mick seems to be struggling to maintain his composure and Adelaide waits on bated breath to see if Mick will fulfill a very common fantasy: bash Alan's face in with a fist. But Micks takes in a deep, calming breath.

"You're right, _sir_ , sorry _sir_. I'll fix them all at once. Sir," Mick tacks on for good measure. A muscle jumps in Alan's jaw at the over use of the word.

"Useless," Alan mutters as Mick stands and goes over to retrieve the files he's transposed in red ink. Adelaide feels for him, sure it'll take him another three or four days and by then he'll be set back in his daily work.

"Fleming!" Adelaide starts, surprising as being called up. She quickly hurries over, appearing as though she _hasn't_ been listening in. Alan stares down his knows at her with a sneer. "Since Mick has decided to waste all of our time, Mick is going to be working overtime. Since Mick is working overtime, Mick has lost his opportunity to visit the outside world."

Adelaide chances a glance at Mick, wondering what he might do if Alan says his name once more. So she intervenes with a quick and questioning, "Sir?"

"I've a delivery for the City. Think you can do that, Fleming? I hear you're full of talents and skillsets—is operating a car and GPS one of them?" Alan's disparaging tone doesn't get to her. Adelaide is soaring at the idea of getting out of the Basement early, even if it is for something as useless as delivering a box of files into the City.

And so like she had on that first day, she smiles sweetly at him.

"I'll do my very best, sir,"

Alan scowls, but gestures for her to follow him through the maze of files and to his desk. There he gives her a large plastic container stuffed with—surprise files—and tosses a clipboard with a stack of paperwork on top.

"Since your shift is up in an hour anyway, don't bother coming back. So after Stark signs for the delivery, keep the paperwork overnight and bring it in the morning. If you think you're too important for this job and wish to resign, go ahead and lose it or leave it at home," Alan tells her.

Once again his snide remark has no effect on her, because Adelaide perks up at the name. "Stark? As in Tony Stork? As in—"

"Iron Man, yes. How original, another fan-girl jumping at the chance to bed an Avenger," he drawls, returning to his work. Adelaide's jaw drops.

"That's not what I—who delivers paper work and sleeps with an Avenger?" she asks. Her incredulity seems sincere enough to him, because he snorts.

"Oh honey, you'd be surprised,"

* * *

Earth's Mightiest Heroes are having a party. Or at least, Tony Stark is, as is made obvious by the music and laughter and pulsing lights past the short hallway off the elevator. But Adelaide is trying to keep herself composed, trying to appear cool before Stark. It's less that he's Tony Stark, ex-playboy and genius billionaire and more that he's the man that steps into the Iron Man suit that is making her feel things. After all, he is a part of the team that has inspired her and so many others to fight the good fight. Or file the boring files or whatever.

"Working on your tan?" Tony asks as he trades his beer for the pen and clipboard she is holding. He leans the clipboard on the box she is holding propped up against a hip, and she watches him sign and initial as her eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"Sorry?" she asks. Should she have tacked on a sir, there?

"Tan. If you're delivering these, I'm guessing you're working in Hell, Hades, whatever they're calling the Basement," Tony says, gesturing the butt of the pen vaguely over her. "Hell is hot. Tan," he repeats conversationally, finishing off his last signature with a flourish.

Adelaide smiles grimly at the mention of her stuffy, windowless workplace, handing him his requested box of files. "Yeah, all tan but no skin cancer. Best part is, eggs cook right off the tabletops," She hopes her jest doesn't sound completely ungrateful for her position, but Tony arches an eyebrow slightly, and then he's laughing and taking back his beer, box of files under his arm.

"You on the nightshift or just ending?" he asks, brown eyes twinkling.

"Ending," says Adelaide, hoping that he isn't about to send her out for more files. Stark tilts his head towards the room the party seems to be in full swing at.

"You wanna join us?" he asks. The question shocks her, and she finds words tumbling out of her mouth, words she isn't necessarily giving her mouth permission to say though she figures she should be saying them anyway.

"Love to—work tomorrow—unprofessional?—" The last part is something of a question, and she wonders what her superiors would say if they knew she was partying with Tony Stark and whoever else was on premises. Would they take issue? Would it be cleared as a work party? Would they not give a damn?

"Ah, come on. I'm SHIELD—sort of—you're SHIELD…" Stark hedges.

"I don't know…" Adelaide trails off wistfully. Of course she wants to say yes—after all, this'll be a great story she can't actually tell anyone outside of work about, but a great story all the same. She also knows that she's already on thin ice, and she doesn't want to risk anything. Then Tony Stark speaks the magic words.

"Free, premium booze,"

"Okay, one drink," she says.

Tony smirks. "Aha! That always gets the kids into the white van. Now get in. This party will die without its gracious and amazing host,"

Adelaide follows Stark into the living room, still not believing her luck. She knows Mick will give her hell for this— _fucking hell this room is two floors, three?!_ —knowing he's missed his chance to party with fucking Iron Man. She tries to hide the grin that threatens to split her face in two.

There are lots of people in the room, and at first glance she recognizes no one. But then, as her eyes adjust to the nightclubish lights, she realizes there are a few familiar faces.

 _Fucking shit. I'm at a party with_ the _Black Widow and Hawkeye._ She gazes nearly reverently at the two Avengers across the room; they're basically everyone's idols in SHIELD training camp, including hers. She has every single mission of Black Widow's memorized—those that are made SHIELD Level Three public, anyway—and has always been mesmerized by her strategies, and Adelaide likes strategies. The two epitomize everything SHIELD should be, and staring at Natasha Romanoff is making her suddenly unsure of the rigidity of her sexuality.

"So, you know, these are people," Tony says, vaguely gesturing around the room. No one is quite close enough to introduce, and he doesn't know her anyway. "And you're…?"

"Fleming. Adelaide. Adelaide Fleming," She says. She wants to add that she's not usually this socially awkward, but then she sees fucking _Thor_ approach them, a head taller than anyone in the room, and her eyes go round as coins. Adelaide isn't one hundred percent sure, but she's willing to bet several months pay that his biceps are (if not bigger) the size of her thighs.

"Anthony," says Thor as he approaches. She's always imagined him to have a loud, booming voice, but instead it's simply commanding and pleasantly warm and _deep._ "The Silver Speedster has once again depleted your reserves of vod-ka,"

"God damn it," Tony sighs. He glances over to her. "Hope you're okay with Jack and coke or whatever we have left. Thor'll show you to the bar. I gotta run these up to the lab, drop this off,"

Adelaide has to stop herself from calling him back; Tony Stark is one thing, and Thor is quite another. He is looking down at her curiously, likely trying to place if he has ever met her before. She appreciates that unlike Alan, Thor looking down at her feels like only a height difference. Despite what one might think, and despite he very much looks like a god (is one, at that), Thor Odinson gives the overall impression of comfort.

"I do not believe we have met before," he says, extending a hand. He's very gentle about their handshake, and she wonders if its something that comes naturally to him, or if there has been some sort of incident where he has realized how fragile an earthling's hands are.

"No. I'm Adelaide Fleming," she says, proud that she's much smoother this time.

"A pleasure to meet you, Adelaide Fleming. I am Thor, son of Odin. I shall do as Anthony has suggested and acquaint you with the bar," Adelaide nearly giggles; each time Thor says Tony's name, it sounds like 'Antony' rather than 'Anthony', which coupled with how he speaks, makes her think of Shakespeare.

"Sam! A drink for my new friend, Adelaide Fleming," says Thor once they've reached the bar. Adelaide hops upon a seat, and nearly laughs that although the bar stool is tall, she's still shorter than Thor.

"And what will Miss Adelaide Fleming have?" grins the man behind the bar. "I make a mean martini," he adds. Adelaide can't help but grin back at the man. His smile is infectious, and he's handsome, and Adelaide knows that had she met him at a bar outside of work, she would have _definitely_ turned on the flirting. But this is basically a work thing.

"Prove it," she says, and _oops_ , maybe that was _just a little_ flirtatious. Sam, as Thor has called him, grins broadly once more.

"Okay, okay, challenge accepted," he says. As he sets about grabbing and spinning bottles in a way that impresses her, she realizes that, holy shit she has seen him before.

"Sam Wilson!" she praises as he sets her drink down in front of her.

"A fangirl," says Sam. The way he says the word isn't with contempt. He seems to enjoy the prospect, and she laughs.

"I was in DC when shit hit the fan," she says, and then nearly regrets it immediately. DC isn't exactly her proudest moment, not that he would know of her. "Saw you flying around, shooting things,"

"Well damn then. Pause on that martini," says Sam. "That calls for a celebratory shot. Join us, man," he adds to Thor. He quickly pours out three shots before Adelaide can read the bottle—she knows it's not vodka—and pushes them across the bar top to her and Thor.

"Here's to shooting HYDRA in the ass!" Sam says. Adelaide cheers with a 'hear, hear!', deciding not to own up to the fact that the only time she's fired a gun at a live human being, it's been at a SHIELD CO trying to stop a HYDRA agent. For tonight, those are all technicalities.

"Indeed!" this time Thor's voice is booming, and they all knock back the shot. The tequila burns her throat pleasantly, and Adelaide decides right then and there that no matter what happens to her career, in her life—this moment is fucking _it_. She's taking shots with fucking Thor and Sam Wilson.

"How's that martini?" Sam asks once she drains it. Now that Sam has leaned up against the bar to chat with her and Thor, someone else has taken over his bartending duties, and they're serving up drinks. Adelaide is glad of it, because Sam is _hilarious_ , and between him and Thor, Adelaide has as stitch in her side from laughing so hard.

"Couldn't really tell. Might need a second one to decide," she teases. Sam laughs knowingly, and reprises his bartending role once again just for her.

Alcohol is Adelaide's ally that night. Her worries slip away, and she's having a damn good time. She doesn't remember the last time she's gone out and had so much fun. Though she's from New York originally, it's been years since she's lived here, and she doesn't have any more friends. The friends she'd made in SHIELD basic training are God knows where working on God knows what, and so tonight is perfect. For the first time in nearly a year, she's not worried about work, she's not worried about anything—just having a good time.

Sam tries, unsuccessfully to get her on the dance floor. Thankfully Adelaide has just enough sense to decline, and she watches in awe as he saunters over to Natasha Romanoff instead. He says something to her and she laughs, and she watches him lead her over to the dance floor. Black Widow and Flacon are suddenly a nineties music video style dance off.

 _Just kidding,_ now _, my life is complete._

Thor is called away, and he politely excuses himself, allowing Adelaide a moment to sit back against the counter and observe the scene before her. She can't keep the stupid grin off her face, and she doesn't want to. She feels so good right now, her day having taken such an unexpected twist. She doesn't want it to end.

Which is why she decides she needs more booze. She leans over the counter, peering at the labels of alcohol, wondering what she should have next. A welcome gust of wind rustles her hair, reminding her that she'd taken it down from it's bun some hour or so ago. She blinks as she finds herself face to face with another god. Not quite of thunder, but the words 'sex god' are definitely running through her mind. His blue eyes are electric, and she can't quite comprehend _why_ she's so attracted to the man in front of her. Facial hair has never really been a thing for her, his hair is two toned—contrasting dark brown and silvery blond—and oh, there it is, a smirk.

She's always had a thing for cocky assholes, and Adelaide is willing to bet he's one of them.

"Can I interest you in anything?" he asks her. He has a distinctively Eastern European accent, another kind of accent that she's never ranked as attractive. So why is she melting against the counter top? Maybe because his voice has brought attention to his lips—lips she wants to bite down on. "I'd offer you vodka, but we're out,"

She returns his smirk. "So, you're the culprit," Realization dawns on her once more, and she realizes that she's caught yet another Avenger. Pietro Maximoff, aka Quicksilver. She doesn't know much about him—him and his twin sister are still knew additions to the Avengers—and she feels more comfortable around him than she did previously with Stark and Thor. Maybe it's because he's so close in age to her, or maybe it's the flirtatious way he's leaning across the bar and towards her. Sober she might have been intimidated by how close his face-a stranger's face-was to her own, but tequila has never made her shy.

"I am responsible for that, yes," he says. He looks around and picks up the nearest bottle of booze. It's the tequila bottle from earlier, now nearly half empty.

"Tequila makes me slutty," she means to think it, but a filter saturated with booze causes her to say it out loud. Surprise flits across his face, replaced by another smirk as he takes two new shot glasses and fills them both to the brim with tequila. He slides one over to her.

"Need salt, lemon?" he asks. Adelaide both likes and hates that he knows she'll take the shot, and grins wantonly.

"I can take it," she says. She's flirting, and probably badly, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"I really hope you will," he practically purrs. "I'm Pietro,"

Just to stroke his ego, Adelaide bats her eyes and says, "I know. I'm Addie,"

Pietro isn't gentle in the way he pushes her up against the wall, in the way his hands grab her hips and grinds them against his own. Neither is he gentle in the way he grabs her ass and cuts their lust filled eye contact to kiss her. Adelaide can't remember ever being so turned on, and it's been _so long_ since she's let herself have this, she doesn't hold back.

Her hands are everywhere, feeling him and urging his own against her body. They're both breathing hard, their skin is overheated, and she realizes that they just barely are out of sight of the party still raging on. She recognizes the hallway off the elevator from where she came in, and she pulls her mouth away from his to tell him as much. It takes a few moments—his mouth has moved from her lips to her neck, and his hips are once more grinding into hers.

"Hallway—people—" she gasps. Pietro seems to realize, and pauses just for a moment.

"Bedroom?" he asks, accent thicker than ever. Adelaide feels herself grow hotter, either at that or at the fact that he has to ask, as though maybe he _hasn't_ assumed she'll sleep with him.

"You have to ask?" she teases. The next seconds are blurred and she finds herself lying on her back on a bed in someone's bedroom, Pietro crawling over her with a smirk.

"A gentlemen _always_ asks," he replied, and she laughs even as his mouth resumes its work on her neck, and his hands slip under her shirt.

"Oh yeah, and you're obviously a gentlemen, through and through,"

"You don't seem to like, gentle," he says, making quick work of her shirt. She thinks she sees buttons flying, and kisses him harder. She fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, shrugging. She's drunk, he's hot, and consequences are nowhere near the forefront of her mind. She rolls them over so that she's straddling him.

"Don't see what's wrong with taking something someone's willing to give you," Adelaide says breathlessly. Seeing him over her, shirtless, she's sure she's going to melt into a complete puddle. "Running does you good," she adds, running her hands over his sculpted chest. He's nowhere near Thor, but that doesn't stop her from leaning down to take his nipple into her mouth. He jumps unexpectedly, reaching to stroke the back of her hair, urging her to continue. She smirks against his chest.

 _Pietro Maximoff has sensitive nipples._ Her brain stores away that information, though she'll realize it's useless—this is a once in a lifetime chance, an alcohol fueled coincidence.

And she doesn't mind it one bit.


End file.
